


Moral Destitution

by PsychoticPerfection13



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, Justice League (2017), Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Broken Hearts, Bruce Has Issues, Clark also has issues, Distraught Clark, Emotional Rollercoaster, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, LIKE A LOT OF ANGST, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Content, They all have issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-22
Updated: 2018-12-14
Packaged: 2019-02-05 07:52:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12790089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PsychoticPerfection13/pseuds/PsychoticPerfection13
Summary: “You won’t let me live,” he said, a grief stricken tone but an underlying theme of anger laced in, “You won’t let me die.Let me have this.”(WARNING: There are mild Justice League spoilers so read at your own risk.)





	1. Pilot Chapter

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! I saw Justice League this Saturday for my birthday and it was amazing! I had a stroke in my chair. If you haven’t seen it, go flock to the theaters right now. 
> 
> I have tons of quotes from JL to use for my fanfictions, and I came up with this- angst. Enjoy. 
> 
> THIS IS REALLY IMPORTANT!! I HAVE AN IMPORTANT QUESTION FOR YOU ALL!
> 
> “Moral Destitution” was originally supposed to be a (super angsty) one shot, but I can definitely see it being turned into a series. Let me know what you guys think in the comments! Do you want it to become a series or stay a one shot?
> 
> And do you want a new fanfiction next, a special, or the next chapter of Jealousy? Let me know!
> 
> Also, feel free to leave kudos. They make my heart feel fuzzy. 
> 
> Much love! -Lex

~~~~~

 

When Clark came back from the dead, time seemed to move in a blur.

They had defeated Steppenwolf in what seemed like minutes after he was resurrected, they were helping civilians with cleanup only an hour later, and then it felt as though he was already helping Clark and his mother move in the next day. It was as if he was never dead. And maybe he wasn’t.

  
Clark went back with Lois to Metropolis. It didn’t take long for them to fall back into their normal rhythm, Clark cracking corny jokes and Lois teasingly smacking him on the arm. It’s not like it would hurt him anyways.

The only person it seemed to ever hurt was Bruce.

She hadn’t hesitated to run straight back into his arms when he got down on one knee and proposed to her again during the middle of a Planet meeting, much to Perry’s (and Bruce’s) dismay.

And when Clark pulled the black velvet box out of his pocket and held it out for her, Bruce couldn’t help but notice him glance in his direction, if only for a brief second.

He worked a lot in the Cave following the days after Clark’s resurrection. Bruce had thought that after being under the ground for so long that it would take him maybe a few weeks or a few months to get his powers back- at the least a couple of hours- but they had come back instantaneously, like he had never lost them at all.

Sometimes it was hard to believe he had died in the first place.

Bruce had revealed the new Justice League head quarters to Diana soon after that. It didn’t look like much at the time, with the walls in shambles and Diana narrowly avoiding being pummeled by a crumbling piece of rock, but Bruce would fix it up in no time and it would turn out to be a fine meeting place. Bruce knew that much.

  
Clark acted strange around him still, but, really, what else did Bruce expect? He had pinned him to a floor with his boot, dug his heel in to cut off his air flow, and then basically shoved a kryptonite spear down his throat. And when he had tried to ask him for help, he didn’t listen. He was surprised he could even stand to be around him.

So when he got an invitation (Clark actually bothered to send him an invitation. Clark never did that) for a Justice League dinner at his apartment, he was caught off guard. He had gotten the impression that Clark didn’t want to be around him anymore than what was necessary. But here it was in front of him, printed in an annoyingly curly font with a pop up flower inside. What else did he expect from Clark?

He couldn’t just not show up. It was League business. And, maybe, it was his chance to make it up to Clark once for all. He could get him a promotion at the Planet, Bruce mused, or offer to pay his rent for- he doesn’t know how long. Probably the rest of his life. He did kill him after all. But Clark was never a gift kind of guy.

Maybe Diana was right. His guilt _was_ eating him alive. Lois believes Bruce didn’t kill Clark, and so does Diana and Martha. But they still give him weary looks when he walks past them or pats Clark on the back like he’s about to stab him with a kryptonite blade.

Which, wouldn’t be unbelievable. He did try to stab him with a kryptonite blade.

And now, he gets an unexpected invite from Clark to go to his apartment, which may very well be his chance to gain his friendship. So, Bruce swallowed his pride, (he about choked on it, that’s how much he had) folded the invite into his pocket, and that’s how he ended up here, in front of Clark’s apartment, hand outstretched with a vague notion of maybe knocking on the door.

There were no sounds from inside, which wasn’t unusual- Bruce had arrived twenty minutes early to maybe get a chance to speak with him, negotiate a peace. He didn’t bring his utility belt, in the fear of scaring Clark away- because that’s literally the last thing he’d want to do right now. And, besides, if any danger came their way, the whole of the Justice League was there.

So, he took a deep breath, and braced his hand backwards.

But before his hand even made contact with the door, he was being pulled inside and a hand was being clamped over his mouth.

Um-okay.

“Don’t. Move,” a voice whispered in his ear, and Jesus, if that didn’t make a shiver go down his spine. Bruce snuck a hand down to his waist but- right. No utility belt. His hand was swiftly snatched away, which wasn’t surprising- except for the fact that it came to lay on someone’s- hip?

What- the fuck.

His mind had already kicked into overdrive, wondering _how, who, how had I not heard them inside, is Clark okay, is it Steppenwolf again? no- that can’t be right-_

“I can hear you thinking Bruce,” the stranger said, louder this time, but no less dangerous. And then- did he just fucking lick the shell of his ear? “Give that pretty little mind a break every once in a while, won’t you?”

And Bruce recognized that voice. It wasn’t Steppenwolf- he didn’t hear the noises because- Clark is _okay_ -

Because it is Clark.

“If you make a sound,” his tongue again, this time on his neck- fucking hell, “I’ll snap your neck.”

Oh- my god.

“Clark- let’s talk about this.” Bruce tried to pretend his voice wasn’t shaking as much as he knew it was, and failed. And- he was going to hell for how much this was kind of sort of turning him on. “Did something happen with Lois?”

Clark’s body tensed, and Bruce could practically hear his teeth grit together. Jesus- Clark could rip someone’s head off with those teeth. And it was unlikely that it wasn’t going to be his.

“Shut up.”

He was slammed against a wall so fast that his head spun and he narrowly avoided throwing up. His head left cracks in the wall and yeah, that was gonna piss off Clark’s landlord, but that was kind of the last thing on his mind right now. And the shitty tile pressed against his face wasn’t doing him any favors.

“Don’t say her name,” Clark growled- honest to God growled, and- Bruce was so screwed.

“Clark,” Bruce said unsteadily, “Calm down.”

“I can’t be with her.”

Okay, well, that was unexpected.

“She’s too pure for me. She’s beautiful. She’s like an angel Bruce. And I’m just-“

Bruce felt a drop of liquid on his shoulder, and then another. Was Clark drooling? It wasn’t long until his whole shirt sleeve was practically soaked and Clark’s head was buried in his shoulder with his nose pressing in uncomfortably.

Oh. He was crying.

Well, that took quite a turn.

Bruce stayed quiet, awkwardly patting his back as Clark scrambled for a hold on his shirt. When the silence had finally became too much to bear, he led him over to the couch and sat him down, and Clark immediately threw himself over his lap.

Jesus.

“I’m a monster- Bruce, I’m a monster. She saw me like that- I tried to kill you, and Diana, and Victor, and Barry- fuck, the poor kid was just trying to help.”

Clark was sobbing into his stomach, his grip on his shirt so tight the fabric was started to rip, and god damnit Bruce had never been good with these kind of situations. When Dick had broken his arm as a child doing a backflip and was sobbing so hard Bruce was afraid the whole cave would flood, the only thing he could do was run around like a chicken with its head cut off before Alfred came hurrying down the stairs.

“I’m a monster. I’m a monster, I’m a monster, I’m a monster I’m a monster I’m a monster-“

And he just kept repeating it like some terrible mantra, as if saying it out loud could make him accept it or deny it or anything at all.

After what felt like hours, but was probably just a few minutes, he finally quieted down, save for some wheezes here and there, but he still didn’t say anything with his head buried in Bruce’s now soaked shirt. They stayed like that, Clark still shivering from his previous outburst, Bruce cautiously stroking his hair because he knew- he knew- Clark could snap at any moment and bite his hand off if he really wanted to. And, hey, if he did, Bruce wouldn’t even blame him.

At last, Clark finally looked up at him, his eyes seemingly grey, all the color drained out of them as if they held all the life in them and whispered,

“Fuck me.”

Okay- what the FUCK.

“W-what?” Clark looked completely certain of what he had just said, but Bruce was still struggling to form a coherent thought, much less a coherent sentence.

“I said, fuck me.”

“No no no no no,” Bruce said, shooting up from the couch so fast it would’ve made Selina proud, “No. Y-you can’t, and you’re married! And the League will be here any minute, and- even if they weren’t, still- no. No, no no no no.”

“They aren’t coming. I made that up to get you over here. And I’m not married,” Clark said sternly, an oddly serious expression on his face, “I’m engaged. There’s a difference.”

“Wow!” Bruce shouted, pulling on his jacket- he had taken his jacket off? He didn’t remem- oh, yeah. Clark had taken it off. Great. “I think I know the difference Clark, okay?”

He snatched his keys off the counter, pushed his jacket on to his shoulders, and left. That was it.

At least, that was what he would tell everyone else- the League, Lois, Alfred, Martha.

His hand was on the doorknob, the metal strangely cold, reflecting how he was feeling, and then he heard Clark speak from behind him.

“You won’t let me live,” he said, a grief stricken tone but an underlying theme of anger laced in, “You won’t let me die.

Let me have this.”

And Bruce really shouldn’t have turned around. He should’ve kept his head down, turned the doorknob, and left. But he didn’t. Because he was weak. Too weak to save his parents, too weak to push through Clark’s death, and now, too weak to say no to this.

So he turned around. And boy, was Clark a sight.

His hair was ruffled from Bruce’s fingers running through his hair- and Bruce didn’t want to think about how soft and silky it was when he did, because he really shouldn’t, but he is. There are tears in his eyes, but the blue has returned, almost as if it had never been gone at all, and Bruce couldn’t help but think I did that. I brought that back. When was the last time he could say he brought back the light in someone’s eyes?

And Clark looked like he trusted him. Him, the man who had grinded him into the ground with his boot, the one who had caused his mother and Lois so much heartbreak and grief. Him.

Clark trusted him.

And, really, Bruce didn’t even know why he thought he had a chance.

So when Clark appeared in front of him, snuck an arm around his waist and tugged him into his bedroom, he followed limply behind. When Clark pushed him back on to the bed and started undressing him, he didn’t resist. If someone asked, he wouldn’t admit that when Clark kneaded the flesh on his neck between his teeth Bruce’s hands flew up to tangle themselves in his hair. But they did.

He wouldn’t tell anyone about how tightly Clark had held on to him when he finally entered him, breached him just like he was everything else; Lois and Martha’s trust, Alfred’s pride, his own credence.

And when he had finally come down from his high, with Clark a panting mess beneath him, he decided to never tell anyone what had been said between them.

Because when Clark rolled over, buried his face into a pillow, and sobbed until he drifted off into sleep, there was only one thing reverberating through Bruce’s mind.

What Clark had shouted breathlessly only minutes earlier as he finally came undone.

“I love you.”

Clark was gone the next morning.

 

 

But, really, what else did Bruce expect?

 


	2. One, Two, Three.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of Bruce and Clark’s night in the throes of passion. 
> 
> Alfred has had enough of this shit, and Lois is just clueless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So- thinking of an OC idea for something in the story- would anyone be interested in a raffle of some sort to maybe be featured?
> 
> 12 days later than I promised, but it’s here and twice the length of the last one! And you’re welcome for the cliffhanger. *dabs sideways*
> 
> I hope you all love it, I worked really hard on it.
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> P.S. I’m taking suggestions for ficlets now so go ahead and give me your ideas in the comments!

 ~~~~~

 

When Bruce woke up, Clark was gone.

He didn’t really know how to feel about that. Sure, he had woken up with people before, tons, actually (something Bruce Wayne would boast, but Bruce never would), but never someone special. Never someone who had made him feel like this.

And he didn’t even know what _this_ was.

 Most of those encounters would end with some quick morning sex and then they would leave with whatever they had wanted; money, fame, gossip. It was nothing new.

But Bruce had always let them leave knowing it hadn’t meant anything, because they would tell him what they had wanted out of it and he’d give it to them. Alfred would pester him about family, and a meaningful relationship, but it didn’t matter. It would happen again, and again, and again until eventually Alfred just gave up on him.

(Maybe he did a long time ago.)

 But Bruce didn’t know what Clark had wanted from him, other than, well, him. And no one had ever wanted him before, and the fact that Clark did scared Bruce more than he’d like to admit.

Bruce laid there, staring up at the ceiling fan whirring soundlessly, and tried to remember something about last night, anything, and to his equal delight and horror he found that he had remembered every second of it. Every fleeting touch, every warm breath against his skin, every brush of lips. He remembered it all.

And he fucking hated it.

Having sex with Clark was like alcohol, or drugs. Euphoric in the moment, like you’re on cloud nine. It was one of the best feelings in the world, no matter who said it was wrong.

You’d regret it the next morning, for a number of various reasons; because it left you with a bad taste in your mouth, or you missed work, or because you know that you’d do it again even though it was harmful to your health. Mental or physical. You’d keep going back to it. You’d remember how good it felt in the moment, a warmth spreading from your toes to your cheeks, and you felt alive for once, so you’d do it again, and again, and again. It was how all addictions started.

(It was how his addiction started.)

 

Bruce had been awake for all of two minutes before he felt as if he had overstayed his welcome, despite the fact that no one was there to tell him otherwise. He only had to search for a few minutes to find his clothes (he had thought that they would be scattered on the floor, but they were carefully folded on top of Clark’s dresser, and Bruce didn’t quite know how to feel about that either.) and his phone was conveniently placed next to it. He was bracing himself for a barrage of texts from Alfred and Dick, worrying about where he was like he was a fifteen year old, but he only had two missed calls from Lucius (he was going to be in trouble for that later, but he couldn’t seem to care) and a few notifications from the bank.

That was weird. But, to be fair, it wasn’t the weirdest thing that’s happened to him in the past twenty four hours.

Bruce was making his way out the door, head buried in his phone typing out some bullshit reply to Lucius, when something on the counter caught his eye.

There was a single light pink flower laying across the countertop, which was odd, because there was no bouquet around that it could have fallen from, and if it was for Lois then it would definitely be in a vase with water, in fear of it wilting. Besides it were a couple of scribbled words on a torn off piece of notebook paper, and it made Bruce’s heart jump when he read them.

 

_Dinner tonight?_

 

What caught Bruce’s attention though was- the rose was pink. Not red. He had only ever seen Lois gifted red roses, with the occasional baby’s breath mixed in. Bruce remembered- a few years back he had spent about twenty minutes memorizing the mundane colors of flowers and what they meant off the internet in order to use when it charming ladies; they always fell for the flower ploy. Red symbolized passion, lust, and romance. He had used that one quite a few times in bed. 

But pink was a whole different story. Pink was gentler, (like Clark, in a way) and lighter, and less intense. Admiration, sweetness, and a poetic romance. 

Bruce smiled and took the flower, gently tucking it away in his pocket.

 

(If he had known the rose would be the equivalent of his first cigarette, or his first shot of vodka, he wouldn’t have taken it.)

 

 

 ~~~~~

 

 

 

It was raining when he stepped outside. It caught him off guard, though it really shouldn’t have- it was sunny and in the high sixties only the day before, but it was Metropolis, and weirder things have happened in a day. Like having a flying alien with superhuman abilities jumping buildings on the regular.

Bruce fingered the petals of the rose in his pocket as he slipped his phone out of the other.

“Hey Lucius. I’m gonna be coming in a bit late today...”

 

 

~~~

 

 

When Bruce stepped into the office that day, he was greeted by a silently fuming Lucius and calloused nails digging into his forearm. 

Not his most unwelcoming greeting, unfortunately.

He was dragged to a meeting room, where he spent an hour fiddling with the rose in his pocket while the board members droned on and on about finances and publicity. He pointedly made sure he was looking out the window to make it seem as though he was counting the leaves fluttering past it, nodding off as if he’d rather be anywhere else but here, but he couldn’t help but think about last night, as much as he tried to erase it from his memory.

Did he want to though?

“Bruce.” Bruce startled and glanced up at Lucius, inwardly flinching when he felt a petal rip from the rose tucked away in his pocket.

 

_One._

 

“Huh?”

Lucius rolled his eyes and flailed his hand in the general direction of the clock. “You have an interview, remember?” At Bruce’s dumbfounded look, Lucius just sighed. “Of course you don't. You have an interview at two. Go get ready, Ashlyn will go over the subject with you.”

 “Who’s Ashlyn?” Bruce paused. “Amanda?”

“Just go Bruce. And please don’t fuck it up.”

Bruce was already halfway out the door.

“No promises!”

 

 

 

~~~~~

 

 

 

“You will not believe this Clark.”

 Clark looked up from his assertive typing on his computer to look up at Lois perched over his desk. Any other day, he would’ve looked up and smiled so bright the sun would be jealous, and then lean forward and kiss the blush rising on her cheek. Clark swept over his previous work, and swiftly clicked to a different tab when he realized he had been typing fuck for three lines straight without even realizing it.

“Clark?”

And when he looked up at Lois, his heart didn’t thump a little faster like it used to, and it didn’t get just a little harder to breathe. His fiance, the love of his life, was just another person.

 

Scary.

 

“What is it?”

 “We just got our big break,” Lois exclaimed, plopping a pile of papers smack dab in the middle of his keyboard.

“We?” Clark questioned skeptically, an eyebrow raised as he flipped through the pages filled to the brim with words that seemed a little excessive for a fluff piece on the third page.

“We get to cover the front page story!”

Clark stopped examining the papers and sat up a little straighter at that. He had never gotten to cover the front page story before (he didn’t even get to cover most of Superman’s stories, which was ironic, Clark mused), and most Pulitzer Prize winners had at least one front page article for the Daily Planet under their belt. It made sense too, considering all the background information provided. “Really? What is it about?”

Lois’ grin was almost wider than the Cheshire’s.

“Bruce Wayne’s Latest Affair.”

Suddenly his last three lines made a _lot_ more sense.

 

~~~~~

 

 

“Anna,” Bruce started, snapping his fingers in a way he knew to be annoyingly overbearing, “who’s this meeting with anyways? Lucius didn’t tell me jack shit about it.”

And that much was true. He didn’t know of this interview, which was strange, because he stayed on top of most things in his agenda, so it must mean it was scheduled on late notice. Yesterday, or today, even. But, Bruce recounted the previous few days- he hadn’t lashed out at any parties recently, or been caught drunk at nine in the morning on a Wednesday (it had happened before), or bedded anyone scandalous lately (other than fucking Superman). So he didn’t see the need for an interview, except for the fact that maybe someone wanted to get an easy front page story and came up with the brilliant, genius idea to get a trash fluff piece of Bruce Wayne talking about how handsome and wealthy he is. Probably Vogue.

“Ashlyn, actually, and I believe, sir,” she said tersely, her heels clanking loudly against the wood floors. She was young, good looking, slender- Bruce probably would’ve slept with her by now if it wasn’t for- well. “Your interview is with Lois Lane. Of the Daily Planet.”

Bruce’s steps faltered for a second. He didn’t know if he could face Lois after yesterday and see her smile, all sunshine and rainbows with her hair bouncing in excitement even though he literally had his dick in her fiancé less than twenty four hours ago.

“Okay-,” had his office always been this far away? “Is that all?”

“And your regularly scheduled outburst at three, sir.”

“What?” 

Ashlyn smirked and tapped the clipboard mockingly with her pen. “Enjoy your interview, Mr.Wayne.”

And then she slammed the door behind her, rattling the pencils scattered over his desk.

Bruce smiled. He liked her. Better than his other twelve pushover assistants who couldn’t handle the pressure.

 

 

~~~

 

 

Clark couldn’t help the growing apprehension in the pit of his stomach. He was never the anxious type, even when it came down to finding a literal space alien from the exact same planet from him who had the exact same powers and some more, but this was different. How, he didn’t know. The receptionist was nice enough, complimenting his tie, and Clark tried not to wonder if she was trained to do that to prepare them for the hell to come.

The elevator ride up was… fine. Each hospitable ding just felt like it was bringing him closer to his doom, and it felt much worse than waking up to the guy who had literally tried to kill him.

(To be fair, that’s what he did this morning.)

 And then the elevator doors slid open, and Lois and him were being ushered into Bruce’s office so quickly Clark didn’t have to time to second guess being there.

 

_Fuck._

 

 

~~~

 

 

When Clark and Lois walked into Bruce’s office, he didn't know whether or not ot be pleasantly surprised or to jump out the window by his desk.

 He didn’t have time to decide.

“Ah, Ms.Lane. It’s always a pleasure,” Bruce grinned, giving her a blatantly obvious once over while she glared daggers at him. “Mrs. Lane, actually,” she laughed dryly, waving the ring shining on her finger in his face. “This is my husband,” she said, motioning to Clark and interlocking their arms together while Clark contemplated whether or not to just burst through the ceiling.

 “Oh,” Bruce said, feeling his heart drop slowly to his feet. Of course she would drag Clark around with her everywhere, especially since the last time she left him alone he got stabbed in the chest with a kryptonite spear, but it didn’t make it any less painful to see. It was just a constant reminder of how Clark wasn’t his.

“It’s a pleasure, Mr…?” 

“Kent,” Clark gritted out, bowing his head when Bruce extended a hand towards him. Okay, so that was how it was going to be. “The pleasure is all mine.”

Well, two could play at that game. And if there was anything Bruce was good at, it was playing games with people. “I’m sure, Mr. Kane.”

“Kent-”

“If you two would have a seat, that would be lovely. Or don’t. I don’t really care.”

Clark narrowed his eyes at Bruce as he sat down, making sure to scrape the legs of the chair piercingly loud against the most likely million dollar floors. Bruce pulled a face, but didn’t say anything more on the matter. “So? What’s today about? I was too busy running a multi-billion dollar company to be bothered to find out,” Bruce said simply, studying the nails that were concealed in Kevlar every night in front of him.

Lois’ feigned smile perfectly described Clark’s current mood. “To be perfectly frank, Mr. Wayne, we both know that Lucius Fox is doing the real heavy lifting around here.” Bruce’s frown deepened as she continued, and Clark couldn’t help but feel a little pride in that. Lois was a frighteningly sharp observer, which was how she had infiltrated farther into the Planet than anyone else ever had. Clark could've called her the most intelligent, hungriest person he had ever met at some point.

But then he met Bruce, and he, as much as he’d hate to admit it, outshined her in every way. He was cunning, almost obnoxiously strong headed, tough, and even more sarcastic than she’d ever be (if that was even possible). And he had hated himself ever since he had thought that and realized it was true. 

“So-“ Lois started, elbowing Clark in the ribs when she finally realized he had been staring at a fish tank for thirty straight seconds, “That rose on your desk. Care to address that?”

Lois’ previously polite, contained smile turned dangerously smug at Bruce visually deflating in his chair.

Clark didn’t think he’d actually keep it. The rose petals were visibly stiff and turning brown towards the ends, and most of them were wilting so badly they were pointed towards the floor. One had fallen off completely.

 

_Two._

 

But Bruce had still put the single flower in what had to a crystal vase meant for a whole bouquet. It all looked severely out of place, considering the rest of his pristine yet desolate modern designed office.

“A very- special person gave it to me,” Bruce croaked out, his piercing blue eyes burning a hole through Clark, angrily or endearingly, he couldn’t tell. “I don’t see why that’s any of your business though,” Bruce continued, turning back to Lois and leaving Clark in the dark to resume his internal dilemma. “Any more questions? This is already getting quite dull.”

“Ever heard the name Silver St. Cloud?” Lois asked, leaning forward so far that Clark was afraid their foreheads would bump together. 

“I have,” Bruce said simply, tracing the rim of the glass of water on his desk while looking out the window at the lights shining in, “Nice lady. What about her?” 

“You were seen with her the other day- two days ago, to be precise.” Wow, Lois really read every paper in that pile. “Two of the most well known people in Gotham, successful, rich…”

Perry had emphasized the fact that they were supposed to be getting the scoop on all the dirty details that derived from their relationship- her father's perspective on it all, how expensive the ring he planned for her he was going to be, (all particular details that Clark didn’t want to know about in fear of the feeling in his stomach coming back with a vengeance) but Lois was never one for the whole ideal domesticated life story or the trash headlines you see on the front page of Vogue. Maybe that was Perry’s intention when he assigned it to her.

“The library, in Gotham, just a few blocks from your mansion. If you two really are working together, whether professionally or romantically, I would highly suggest maybe hosting a,” Lois waved her hand vaguely, “charity gala of some sort to raise money- or, better yet, just donate some money yourself! It’s bordering on a thousand years old, Mr. Wayne, and you don’t find that type of architecture anymore in Gotham, or even Metropolis-“ 

“Mr. Wayne,” Clark said tersely, discreetly kicking Bruce’s shin under the chair so he jerked backwards. “We are continuing our interview, correct?” Bruce, himself, had taken to regretfully pulling his attention away from the pen he was fidgeting with under his desk to glare up at Clark.

“Oh yeah, sure,” Bruce said, waving his hand dismissively and comically stifling a yawn just for show. “I just assumed we were finished here. I thought you were writing a fluff piece, not a persuasive article.” Bruce reached over the desk and tapped the side of Lois’ head, only to get it smacked away. “Use that big brain of yours. They taught you the difference in your journalism class, certainly?”

 Lois’ gritted her teeth together so violently that Clark would probably be able to hear it without his super hearing.

“It was a gift. From a friend,” Bruce said simply. “Really Ms. Lane, does your husband never gift you flowers just to do so? Shame.”

“Mr. Wayne,” Clark huffed irritably, intentionally slamming his clipboard down onto his desk just hard enough to land with a satisfying _thump_.

Bruce seemed taken aback, but his eyes or posture didn’t waver, and Clark was determined to succeed in doing so. “I’ll have you know that I am right here, thank you, and I do court my wife. I probably treat my wife with more respect than you do your- whores!” Clark sputtered out, and then cringed inwardly because he knew he shouldn’t have said that, but the look on Bruce’s face was more than enough to quell the growing unease in the pit of his stomach.

As for Bruce, Lois’ smug smile from over Clark’s shoulder fueling him, the rage flared into something akin to the feeling he got when he descended from buildings to apprehend a criminal from down below. He didn’t want to know about the flowers he got for Lois, or the chocolates, or the kisses peppered all over her face because he knew; he just didn’t want to be reminded of the fact. That Clark wasn’t his.

Bruce’s sly smile was back before Clark had even realized it vanished. “You’re right.”

Clark didn’t know what he was taken aback by; the fact that Bruce had actually said he was right about something for once, or the fact that for the first time since they had walked in the door he seemed as though he was actually paying attention. Bruce had been listening the whole time, but he would never show it; he never showed anything.

“The person who gave me this rose?” Bruce tutted. “Wasn’t Silver.”

Bruce turned towards Clark completely, while Lois was left to sputter something that sounded somewhat like an apology. He gently lifted the rose out of the vase, and twirled it around in his fingers for what seemed like an hour but was most likely only a few seconds before shoving it in Clark’s face. “It was a whore, just like all the others. Go ahead, take it. Meaningless, anyway.”

And that hurt more than getting a Kryptonite spear propelled through his chest, Lexs’ non stop taunting and sick, twisted games, and, oddly enough, the knowledge of Lois’ heartbrokenness while he was away. He was invincible, inhuman, but right now it felt as though Bruce had broken him and put him back together, only to smash him to pieces all over the floor, like some kind of deranged toddler with too many toys than he knew what to do with.

“Clark, let’s go,” Lois said, pulling on his arm even though she knew he wouldn’t even budge.

Clark had never felt as much pain as he was feeling now; not while laying immobile on the ground as the kryptonite slowly made its way through his bloodstream, not when his mother had sold the house because she couldn't bear the harrowing silence, not even when he came back to find Lois wasn’t wearing her ring. He stayed shock still as the water from the stem landed unceremoniously on his face and slowly dripped onto the floor and and the rose.

“I trust you can show yourselves out. If not,” he said, looking back to Lois with eyes darker than the sky the day Superman had fallen, “I’m sure my security will be able to show you the way.” 

“Clark.” Lois said, firmer this time, and Clark let himself go pliant and be shoved towards the door.

 

Didn’t he deserve all of this though, in a way?

 

 

~~~

 

 

 

When the door slammed shut behind them hard enough to shake his whole office and probably the floor below him, Bruce sunk into his seat and let out a breath he had been holding for what seemed like forever. The guilt sank in after about five minutes, nibbling at his ankles until it got impatient and jumped up to engulf him completely, like some kind of sick dog.

 He should apologize. Clark was in a bad place the night before- he had been underground for the better part of a year- and Bruce couldn’t imagine how scared Clark had been when his eyes flew open and he was back in his ship, the very one that created the thing that led to his untimely death. And it would never happen again anyways, so Bruce could stop dwelling on how good it had been. Clark would probably never tell Lois, and they’d get married, and he’d probably invite Bruce to be his best man just to twist the knife of self-condemnation deeper into his back. And maybe he deserved everything that Clark was doing, in a way.

But that didn’t mean he shouldn’t apologize; God knows what Clark had gone through under the surface, buried in a claustrophobic coffin with raindrops slowly leaking into the cracks, until even Superman couldn’t fight it anymore and drowned under all of the pressure. Bruce wondered if he screamed.

Did he dream?

Did he dream of Lois? 

Bruce tried to shake off the feeling that this was one of those terrible ideas he had, like maybe even showing up to Clark’s apartment in the first place. He should have noticed something was wrong. The prolonged stares during the battle against Steppenwolf, the unwillingness of leaving Bruce by himself to help Barry, and probably so many other things that even the World’s Greatest Detective couldn't notice with the most advanced technology known to man.

But he didn’t, and it happened, and now it was time to make amends.

Bruce tugged on his jacket and made his way out, he ignored Lucius’ screaming turned pleading from behind him, and the blinding lights and clicks of cameras on the way out, and how he could barely walk on the slick concrete and his stupid designer shoes that had absolutely zero grip. He made his way to the most expensive flower shop in Metropolis, and spent at least half of someone’s next paycheck buying the biggest bouquet of red roses he could find (he didn’t want to give Clark pink ones- it seemed way too personal, like he was overstepping a boundary) and made his way over to Clark’s apartment. 

He was ready. He would talk this out with Clark like mature adults, and Clark would end up happily married with Lois, and Bruce would drown himself in whiskey until he died of alcohol poisoning.

There sure was a kink in this plan, huh?

He was prepared for this. That’s what he thought.

Until he was in front of Clark’s door with one hand extended about to knock.

He wasn’t ready for this. But he knocked anyways. Besides, he’d gone into a countless number of missions with no plan because it meant countless people would be able to survive. And there was no guarantee that he would survive his own guilty conscience without being able to talk it out with Clark.

“Bruce?” 

Bruce looked up from his apparently rather interesting shoes to find Clark looking at him with an expression of concern and confusion and something else he couldn’t quite place. And of course he had to answer the door with his hair sticking up in basically every direction and no shirt.

“Clark. I-um.”

Bruce Wayne tripping over his own words. Clark never thought he’d see the day.

“I’m sorry about earlier,” Bruce awkwardly extended his hand out and practically shoved the flowers in his face. “That was- completely out of line. I brought-“

“Clark,” came a gentle voice from behind him. Lois stepped out from behind the entryway, a sheet messily hung over her, and, as far as Bruce could tell, she was bare body, and quite frankly he didn’t want to tell any farther than he already had. “Clark,” Lois cooed, coming up behind him and gingerly massaging his shoulders, “come back to the room. Don’t you want to want to finish what we were doing?” Lois asked with a smirk, petting his hair as Clark cast his eyes downward.

 Bruce froze.

Her hair was frizzled, electric, and he was sure that even Damian was smart enough to figure out what they had been doing.

They had been having sex. Sex?

The gears in Bruce’s head turned. Slowly, as if they could break at any moment. 

Clark wasn’t afraid that he would break Lois. Obviously, this was an indicative sign.

So why did he sleep with Bruce?

“Mr. Wayne,” Lois said, finally acknowledging him even though had made eye contact with him just a minute ago, “What are you doing here?”

_I came to apologize to your husband for agreeing to fuck him when he was in a really bad place and then apologize for calling him a whore at my office today._

“Mrs. Lane,” Bruce said, taking her hand a little more roughly than what was warranted and resisted gagging as he pressed a kiss to it. “I came to- apologize for my behavior today. It was not justified in the slightest. I brought these as a gift.”

 “Oh, that’s- fine. These are lovely, thank you. How… did you find our address?”

 “I have my ways.”

“Okay…. Clark?” 

“I think I’d like to have a word with Mr. Wayne outside,” Clark said slowly, as if he knew what Bruce was thinking and didn’t want to have to fly him through the wall mid sentence.

“Okay,” Lois said unsteadily. “Don’t kill him.” She was smiling brightly, but Bruce could tell she was serious. And even Bruce couldn’t guarantee that he would make it out of this situation with both arms intact.

But that was okay, because he could still operate a grappling gun with one hand and maybe four fingers.

 “If you insist, Mr. Kent,” Bruce said, waving a vague hand in the direction of the bleak hallway behind them.

“I’ll be back in a second.”

Clark gently shut the door behind him and stepped outside, wrapping his arms around him as if he had just stepped out into freshly fallen snow. He was probably trying to shield himself from the inevitable. “What are you doing here Bruce?”

 And the strange thing was that Clark sounded _exhausted._ Bruce would never have imagined that the All-American Hero, _Superman_ , would actually have hardships that he couldn’t punch to get rid of.

Okay, whatever came out of his mouth next would probably set the tone for this whole conversation. Demanding, or soft and understanding.

“What are you doing?” Bruce asked defensively. “Why do you do anything?” He scoffed. “You slept with Lois, didn’t you?”

Demanding it was.

Clark’s posture drooped. “Yes Bruce. That’s usually what people who are going to get married do.”

Ouch. That hurt.

“Then what was all that shit from last night? ‘She’s too pure for me, I’m a monster.’ What is this anyway? Why’d you do it? Were you trying to get back at me? I’m sorry I basically murdered you, okay? I get it. You just wanted to get back at me. And that’s okay. I did kill you.”

”Bruce, that’s not why-“

“I’m sorry that I murdered you, okay? I’m sorry. What else do you want from me? My mansion? My money?” Bruce paused for a moment, grief flickering across his face. “My life?”

“Bruce, please-“

“And I know-“

Bruce rambled on, and Clark couldn’t get a single word in. Bruce wouldn’t shut up, which wasn’t surprising. Bruce was always the one to jump to conclusions, instinct when Batman, intentionally when Bruce Wayne.

So Clark did the only logical thing he could think of. Which wasn’t very logical, per se, but he didn’t know what else to do.

He kissed him.

And maybe Bruce should have been worried, because according to his calculations, there were about a thousand different ways this could end up in flames, but then Clark’s right hand rested on his hip and his left carded through his hair and everything was even more perfect than Bruce could have imagined.

So then why was his stomach still churning?

“Clark, wait-“

Clark’s fingers flexed, as if he was deciding to pull back, but after a moment they dug in further, stinging pain finally shocking Bruce out of his lack of resistance. The roses’ thorns prodded at his back uncomfortably.

“Clark, please-“

And then Clark growled, honest to god _growled_ , and the hand petting his hair tightened and yanked his head back to expose the column of his neck and Clark hastily began to suck a purple bruise below his jaw bone.

“Clark- fuck off-!”

Bruce knocked him away with his elbow and he went stumbling backwards, and Clark dug his nails into the railing and the metal crumpled like dust under his fingers, and Bruce couldn’t help but think that those were the same fingers that had touched him so sensually the night before.

“Get it together Clark,” Bruce snarled, gingerly rubbing the rapidly forming bruise on his jaw. The array of roses were thrown at his feet, and Bruce went stomping down the stairs, his feet slapping against the old, black concrete so violently that the dim light bulb above him shook from the force.

Clark bent over and carefully, more so than when he was even handling Lois, picked up the roses scattered on the ground, their state seemingly only a bit better than Clark’s at the moment. He fished what he could out of the puddle of water that was slowly seeping down the stairs and cradled them in his arms as he dejectedly scanned the puddle for any more salvageable roses. What he found, instead, was a little folded up piece of paper, dripping a mix of black ink mixed with greenish water from the leaves and stems. On it were some scribbled numbers and letters that were barely decipherable, but still salvageable enough that you could read it if you squinted.

 

_Dinner sounds great._

_xxx-xxx-xxxx_

 

 

Clark’s tears joined the puddle below.

 

 

~~~~~

 

 

 

Bruce stood motionless in front of the stones he had come to know so well and ran his fingers along the painfully smooth stone.

“Mom. Dad.”

So maybe his parents’ graves weren’t the best place to go after basically but not really breaking up with someone (he had to stop thinking like they were dating. He’s not his. He belongs to Lois and he always will) who you had adored and somewhat loved ever since you murdered him. But, in his defense, he didn’t know where else to go.

He didn’t know a lot of things lately.

“How are you? I’m.. sorry I don’t have any flowers for you today.” Bruce wasn’t really sure that it mattered, or if they even cared, considering the mountain of flowers on the grave was already in danger of toppling over. Bruce huffed out a self-deprecating laugh. “I... gave them to a conceited prick, actually. Who needs to get his shit together. But despite everything, I don’t really regret it.” Bruce trailed his fingers along the lilies lying, trampled and dead and dried out along the middle. “What was it like for you two?” Bruce whispered. “What was it like to be in love? Was it everything it’s shaped up to be?” Bruce drew the petal that he had torn off the rose from his pocket and gingerly rested it on top of the pile.

 

_Three._

 

“I deserved it anyways. And this is the end isn’t it? Maybe it had never even started, but it’s nice to imagine that it did. I wish you guys were here to help me out.”

And with the cold wind gusting in his face and the rain just starting to drop from the darkening clouds, Bruce cried for the first time in months, back against the chilling stone and head buried in his hands.

 

The rain did nothing to hide his tears.

 

 

~~~

 

 

For the next few weeks, Bruce took to immersing himself in previous GPD cases that had run cold, moving those stupid pictures around on his computer until he started seeing their faces on other people. Apparently Clark hadn’t let their hiccup stop him from going out and saving Lois whenever she just so happened to be consequently thrown off of a building, so why should he?

He went to work, and, as per usual, did no work whatsoever except for futilely trying to annoy the hell out of Ashlyn whenever he could. She seemed determined to not fall into his trap, however.

(Why couldn't Bruce be like that?)

He visited his parents graves almost everyday, which was unusual, because he only seemed to go to them when he wanted to talk to someone who wouldn’t reprimand him. But he was sure if they were alive, they would be shaking their heads in disappointment.

 

 

“Master Bruce.”

And when Bruce had finally had enough of sitting and feeling sorry for himself, he had made his way back. He hadn’t bothered to shed his drenched cotton coat, or find somewhere to dry off on the way home. Bruce Wayne wouldn’t be alone and wet in the rain like this; he’d be prowling the nightclubs like a cat searching for the next unlucky girl whose heart he’d break. Bruce Wayne had a persona to keep up, but Bruce really didn’t feel like upholding that responsibility right now.

“Alfred, prepare a fire,” Bruce said tersely, dropping his coat on the ground with a loud splat. Usually he would have done it himself and Alfred would smile at him as he threw the logs in from where he was in the kitchen preparing dinner, but he really wasn’t in the mood to function normally, neither get a lecture from Alfred.

Surprisingly, Alfred said nothing more on the matter and Bruce flopped on the couch. He would probably be upset and mentally slap himself for getting his fifty thousand dollar couch wet, but for now he just wanted to sleep and forget everything (or at least attempt to).

Alfred tossed the logs in to the fireplace wordlessly and threw a match in as Bruce situated himself on the couch. His eyelids were leaden, concentrating on the faint crackling of the wood and watching the red sparks that bounced every which way. Bruce vaguely wondered if that was what love felt like after all. Sparks flying, red flaming embers burning with passion, until it fizzled away or gets viciously doused by water.

His eyes were just beginning to flutter shut when a loud ringing made him startle.

“Master Bruce. The phone.”

“Who is it?” Bruce asked, sitting up, eyebrows furrowed. Lucius never called him this late, nor the bank, and he wasn’t expecting a late night booty call from anyone.

“Mr. Kent.”

Bruce paused and sat up straighter as Alfred appeared beside him. Alfred thrusted the phone in his direction (he hasn't exactly been the most cordial to Alfred) and Bruce’s hand shook as he accepted it with a bleak nod of his head as he strolled away.

“Hello?”

 

“Bruce- I- I need your help.”

 

 

 

~~~


	3. The Flash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “He’s not my friend. He’s not my lover. I’d barely even call us acquaintances.
> 
>  
> 
> But he is my teammate. And teammates help each other, personal feelings aside.”
> 
>  
> 
> And, what kind of flash?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for bearing with me. I love you all!!! I really hope you like this chapter. 
> 
> Big thanks to heyhey for the authors note tips... I’m super sorry about disappointing you all with an authors note. I’m new and I always get super anxious when I know my readers haven’t heard from me- I’m not dead like please don’t think that lol. I just wanna keep you guys as much in the know as I can. 
> 
> I’m an incoming freshman, I have band camp to deal with, I’m finishing up my summer reading assignment project- but I’m getting it done. Do not worry about this story getting discontinued or anything- I’m seeing this through till the very end. 
> 
> Let me know what you guys think in the comments! Leave me some love (>-3-)>
> 
> Let me know if there are any misspellings or anything of the sort. 
> 
> All my love, 
> 
> -Lex
> 
>  
> 
> 8/24/18 Update- I have a band competition this weekend, and I’m super sorry I haven’t been updating. I’m so tired after morning practice and afternoon practice and the football games and competitions- but just two more short weeks, and it’ll all be over! I’m sure to get the next chapter out then- bear with me. I love this story and my readers too much to let it go to waste. <3

 

~~~

 

“So?”

 

“Three dead, seventeen in critical condition,” Alfred announced idly, not even so much as pausing in his endeavor. The computer towering over them had several different tabs open and resized, prattling on about the collapsed undercover terrorist building in South Sudan.

 

The bat signal never went up.

 

Usually, Bruce wouldn’t have been that torn over the death of a few terrorists in a completely foreign country, but innocent lives, both hostages and forced spouses, were lost and if any other League member would have been there, they would still be alive.

 

“You should’ve called for backup,” Bruce growled, attention still on the reports flashing on the computer rather than Clark rhythmically pacing behind him. “Believe it or not, I didn’t form the Justice League so we could have tea parties and dress up in frilly outfits together.”

 

Imagine that.

 

“I know, I know, it’s just- I thought I could handle it. By myself.”

 

“It’s pretty clear you can’t handle a lot of things by yourself Clark,” Bruce snarled, and he didn’t have to do so much as turn around to know Clark was hanging his head in shame at the moment. 

 

“It’s not my fault- my powers were- they weren’t  _ working. _ ” He vaguely waved his hands and Bruce could see Alfred’s face scrunch up.

 

“What is that supposed to mean?”

 

“My body wouldn’t do what my brain was telling it to.”

 

…

 

“You were fine while fighting Steppenwolf. And saving an entire building full of people. And every time Lois happened to jump off of a building,” Bruce said. It came out a little more aggressive than he intended. 

 

“It’s like I had an- adrenaline rush, or,  _ something,  _ that I just didn’t have last night.”

 

It was still after that, the silence weighing down on all of them like a collapsing building. Bruce could almost hear Clark’s heartbeat. Was Clark listening to his?

 

“I’m going to have to run a couple more tests,” Bruce said suddenly, and Clark stood up a little straighter against the wall. “You'll have to stay here until I'm finished. Alfred, show him to the guest bedroom.”

 

“Sir-”

 

“Clark, Alfred will meet you upstairs.”

 

Clark shifted in the corner and Bruce gave him a level stare.

 

“Okay. I’ll uh, be up- there.” He gestured awkwardly to the stairs and quickly retreated, almost tripping on the way up.

 

“Are you sure about this Master Bruce?” Alfred whispered as soon as he was sure Clark was gone- maybe he knew Clark could still hear him. Maybe he wanted him to. “I’m not sure Mr. Kent is entirely… mentally stable. Who are you to help him?”

 

“He’s not my friend.” Bruce said, shrugging and turning away from the stairs, “he’s not my lover. I’d barely even call us acquaintances. 

 

But he is my teammate. And teammates help each other, personal feelings aside. Please show him to his room,” Bruce said with an air of finality. 

 

“As you wish,” Alfred said, solemnly yet momentarily nodding his head, before turning on his heel as efficiently as he did everything and making his way up the stairs.

 

Bruce slumped in his chair and glanced at the vial oscillating slowly back and forth on his workshop desk. 

 

“Teammate,” he said aloud, and it sounded strange and foreign as it cascaded from his mouth like a mudslide.

  
  


“Teammates.”

 

DONE

 

~~~~~

  
  
  


Alfred lead to Clark to at least the fourth master bedroom in the mansion without a word and left him solitary in the room that suddenly seemed substantially more chilly than when he had first entered. 

 

It wasn’t even the master, and still, it was  _ huge,  _ maybe even as big as his whole apartment. The bed, a king, didn’t even take up a quarter of the room, and there was a loveseat in the corner next to a pile of dusty books that he doubted got much use nowadays. 

 

He had rummaged around in the largely desolate drawers until he happened to find a pair of baggy sweatpants that barely went past his ankles and a shirt that made him second guess whether or not he’d be more uncomfortable with the skin tight fabric of the suit.

 

He decided against a shower, in fear of stepping over the already fragile unspoken line of boundaries Bruce had set that he was sure was never going to be as it was once was ever again. He could ask for a toothbrush, but he figured the ratio of favors he owed Bruce to the ones he owed him were nowhere near symmetrical. So he flopped on the bed, more emotionally exhausted than physically despite the fact that he had taken down the majority of a prime terrorist organization, and gingerly pulled the covers over himself in hope that it would calm the chill making its way up his spine.

 

He remembered researching… something about an article he was writing, he couldn’t quite place the memory; but he had stumbled upon a website that said if you thought about something before you go to bed, there was an increased chance that you would dream about it. He didn’t know if that was true- he didn’t even know if there were studies to back up that bold claim- but maybe if he thought about Lois before he drifted off into sleep, he would dream about her. Her blazing yet soothing red hair, her sweet, considerate smile, and her diligent work ethic that was easily backed by her headstrong personality.

  
  
  


But he found that all he could think about was some unidentified silhouette, deep brown hair with silvery slate climbing up the sides, and dark brown eyes that seemed to be able to swallow you whole if you gazed into them for far too long.

 

He fell into an easy sleep, the blankets billowed around him and the chill receding slowly yet surely.

  
  
  


~~~~~

  
  
  


_ There was smoke everywhere, billowing in vast waves throughout the city. The sirens were ear piercing, but steadily receding until it was only a distant, warm buzzing in his ear. _

 

_ It was over. All hope was gone.  _

 

_ The Daily Planet was in shambles, the signature logo perched on top about a mile away from the actual rubble. Clark couldn’t remember what had happened to it, and why a meek, lowly, newspaper office was of any significance to him. _

 

_ So he stopped trying and let his flutter shut. _

 

_ Quiet, then unease. _

 

_ The wind and ashes were whirling past him, calming and soothing him as other burned under them, when they snapped open again. _

 

_ He remembered something, something important. But it was fuzzy, like TV static desperately attempting to convey an image. _

 

_ The New World was finished. His New World was finished.  _

 

_ But it wasn’t complete. _

 

_ There was something missing, but all he could see was black. Black and silver and a glimpse of red surrounding him until all he could do was listen and watch and be as a deafening silence engulfed him. _

 

_ “Superman!” _

 

_ And then a sound broke through, a voice, as unfamiliar and distorted to him as his past yet equally as familiar to him as the sky, vast and inviting.  _

 

_ “Superman!” _

 

_ No, just another citizen not accepting their New World. His New World.  _

 

_ “Clark.” _

 

_ The last piece of a puzzle that he’s been constructing since he was born.  _

 

_ “Bruce.” _

 

_ Clark turned, slowly, as if any sudden movement could turn this lovely reunion into a war, and there was Batman. _

 

_ “Bruce,” Clark said gently, hovering slowly towards him, and he must’ve done something to make him on edge because he took a shaky step backwards and his right hand fell down to his utility belt. But his heart beated strong and steady as if he was doing something as simple as going out to lunch. _

 

_ He wasn’t wearing the lead lined suit. _

 

_ “Bruce,” Clark repeated, this time a bit of grief in his tone. The scorching, vermillion beams came so quickly that Bruce couldn’t know exactly when it caught on his belt and skimmed the first layer of skin. _

 

_ Superman missed- and considering the millions of burnt, black bodies lying beneath them, it was safe to assume Superman didn’t miss. _

 

_ It didn’t take the World’s Greatest Detective to figure out what was happening. _

 

_ Superman didn’t want Batman dead. He wanted Batman gone, erased from his memory like he had never witnessed his parents being shot dead in front of the theater he had begged them to go to. He wanted- _

 

_ “Bruce!” _

 

_ A hand wrapped around his wrist painstakingly rigid, and even through the gritty transmitter where Alfred was laying dead over his desk, he could make out his Kevlar steadily giving way to Superman’s iron fist.  _

 

_ “You came back for me,” Clark said breathlessly. _

 

_ “I didn’t come back for you,” Bruce said gruffly, hating himself for the fact that his heart was accelerating at an alarming rate and it had nothing to do with the fact that they were over five hundred feet in the air. “I came back for the people you’re supposed to be protecting.” _

 

_ “B-but I am protecting them! I’m saving them from themselves!” _

 

_ Superman’s irises were contracting, shifting like an indecisive light switch from glassy ocean blue to the threatening, crimson color of the same blood flowing through the streets. _

 

_ “You’re protecting yourself.” _

 

_ “I’m saving us Bruce!” Clark sobbed, the last layer of Kevlar crumbling under his fingertips, “These people hurt you!” _

 

_ Bruce paused; later, he would say he did so for dramatic effect, but he hesitated when Clark had pulled him in and held him gentler than he had in years. “Rule the New World with me Bruce. We’ll be kings.” _

 

_ Sitting by Clark’s side, ruling with him, their glittering chairs paling in comparison to Clark’s smile. Flying with him, his hands and his lips as light and airy as the sky around them, white clouds contrasting his ruby suit. _

 

_ The silk sheets rucking up around them as Clark pounded into him, strong and steady like he did everything, Bruce’s heartbeat erratic and Clark kissing it away. _

  
  


_ “I’d rather die.” _

 

_ Bruce had always been a good liar. _

 

_ Clark’s eyes flashed again, and Bruce bit his tongue so hard that metallic sweetness flowed through his mouth when he felt his bone slowly cracking.  _

 

_ He knew now that he was in danger of losing all control. _

 

_ Maybe he never had any. _

 

_ Clark loosened his grip while somehow simultaneously holding on tighter, harsher. _

 

_ “I don’t need you anyways,” Clark sneered, and then his wrist finally, finally received some relief and it traveled through his body, a stinging sensation in his heart because then he was falling, falling.  _

 

_ “Clark!” _

 

_ The only response he got was a beam of coarsing heat through his chest.  _

 

_ “Clark…” _

 

_ _

  
  


Clark awoke with a start. __

 

The sheets were sweat soaked, the comforter was halfway across the room from what he assumed was thrashing around through the night, and-

 

Bruce wasn’t there. 

 

“I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry- Bruce, I’m so sorry, don’t-“

 

“Clark?”

 

Clark whipped his head to the side and about cried out in joy when he saw Bruce perched in the doorway, hip against the frame holding a tray of pancakes stacked so high he could barely see over it. Bruce’s eyebrows were scrunched up as if he didn’t know how to react to Clark startling awake with his name on his tongue.

 

He didn’t.

 

“Are you okay?”

 

Clark’s head was spinning, and Bruce’s silhouette was blurred and distorted and even though it was physically impossible he felt as if he was going to throw up any minute. 

 

“Yeah.”

 

Bruce scoffed. “I know when you’re lying Clark. First of all, you’re just dreadful at it. I think Arthur is better at it than you, which is saying something. And second of all, the corner,” Bruce teased, indicating to Clark’s vastly confused face with a vague hand, “of your left eyebrow twitches up. You have one of the easiest tells I’ve seen.”

 

Bruce had taken the time to learn his tells?

 

“So-” Bruce coughed, swiftly pulling his hand back, somewhat hesitantly Clark noticed,  “Nightmare?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Well, hopefully some breakfast will patch things up.”

 

Clark sat up a little straighter at that. “Really?”

 

“Alfred’s breakfast special. I made- he made you breakfast. Eggs, bacon, only slightly burnt, and some pancakes.” He awkwardly held out the plate. “Blueberry, not chocolate. I know chocolate isn’t exactly your favorite.”

 

“How’d you know that?” Clark asked somewhat mildly, plucking a piece of bacon from the plate and taking a bite, his face scrunching up and Bruce looking on restlessly.

 

“Intuition,” Bruce shrugged off, and Clark narrowed his eyes at him and Bruce just coughed and turned away.

 

“I have some bad news,” Bruce said cautiously, and Clark glanced up at him midbite and furrowed his eyebrows. 

 

“What is it?”

 

“I ran your blood through some tests, and there was some- something a little off with it. No traces of Kryptonite, I made sure but- there was something there that was otherworldly,” Bruce said, leaning back into the pillows as if he was hoping he would sink into them. “You may have remnants of Doomsday’s DNA in your bloodstream,” Bruce said, and Clark pulled back from the tray and scrunched his eyebrows up.

 

“Since the events of Darkseid,” Bruce swallowed, because he knew a more appropriate memory jogger would be ‘The Day I Shoved A Spear Down Your Throat’, but maybe it wasn’t the best time to bring that up, so he continued like he hadn’t hesitated in the first place, “the amount of radioactivity in the atmosphere has been significantly more exorbitant than before. Since Darkseid is also from Krypton, in a way, the radioactivity might be affecting the DNA.”

 

Bruce waved his hands around as if it would help Clark understand evena  portion of what he was saying.

 

“So, until it activates, in whatever which way, which might be in a few months since the radioactivity was far up into the atmosphere, we’ll figure out a way to extract it. It’s going to be dangerous, if not nearly impossible to extract it now since you’re not weakened, just a little- defective, to put it lightly. We have to wait till the radioactive fallout is as its strongest. If we can’t figure it out until then, we may have to con- contain you.”

 

“...Contain?”

 

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get there. For now,” Bruce said, his smile feigned and unsightly beside the purple bruise on his jaw barely hid by his dark grey collar, “your food is getting cold. And you wouldn’t want Alfred's delicious breakfast to go to waste, right?”

 

“Right,” Clark whispered unsurely, but Bruce still slid the tray onto his lap despite the fact that Clark could tell his teeth were grinding together painfully behind his pursed lips. “You figured this all out yesterday?”

 

“Mmmhmm.”

 

“Didn’t you get any sleep last night?  Clark asked, reaching out to deliberately place his hand on Bruce’s forearm.I don’t think it’s the best idea to go work right now… you should go lie down.”

 

“I’m not a child, Clark,” Bruce retorted, eyes dark as he yanked his arm away. “I have business to attend to this morning. My chauffeur will be waiting outside to take you home whenever you’re ready. And there’s a league meeting tonight at six.”

 

And then he turned, and without another word, he walked out and slammed the door behind him.

 

Clark looked down dolefully at his plate.

 

Actually, he wasn’t feeling that hungry.

  
  


~~~~~

  
  
  


“Clark! Where have you been?”

 

“Hey, Lois.” Clark smiled meekly, draping his jacket over the designated ‘chair’ sitting by the console. Sure, it wasn’t really ‘designated’, considering there was a closet to the immediate left of it, but Clark considered it to be, even if Lois happened to disagree. “I’m sorry I didn’t come home last night. League business and all.”

 

“It’s okay,” Lois said empathetically, looking out over the island from where she was in the kitchen. “We have the day off. Wanna go do something this afternoon?”

 

“That sounds great. I just have to be back by six because there’s a meeting at the Watchtower. Mandatory.”

 

The frown that flashed across Lois’ face for a brief moment didn’t go unnoticed by Clark, and he sighed and wrapped his arms around her, her face resting on his chest. “I know. I would love to stay home and spend the day with you. But you know I have a responsibility towards the League.”

 

“I know, I know. You fight for a noble cause, Clark. And I shouldn’t get in the way.”

 

Clark smiled. “Never.”

 

And Bruce had said he was a bad liar.

  
  
  


~~~

  
  
  


“Is the shower with the magical water pressure still on the table?”

 

Clark blew a piece of hair out of his face only to have it fall right back into place.

 

Mandatory his ass.

 

“I personally prefer the fish tank-”

 

“Okay, okay,” Bruce-  _ Batman-  _ said, his voice rigid and stern due to the fact that he was currently keeping Hal and Barry from ripping each others throats out. “We’re a league now, which means that we can’t be fighting over something as silly as a shower for the base or an invisible submarine.”

 

“It’s not a bad idea,” Barry snapped defensively, “we could use it during underwater battles.”

 

“Can’t you just buy both? You’re a billionaire! And when have we ever fought underwater? We’ve barely fought on land.”

 

_ Ring. Ring. Ring. _

 

All eyes on Clark.

 

“Uh- sorry, I’ll take this.”

 

He stumbled out of the chair, as well as the room, only slightly cowering under Bruce’s withering glare. He considered that a victory in of itself.

 

“Hey, honey, no, I’m still held up- I’ll be home as soon as I can. I know, I know. I’ll be back in time for dinner. Okay, I- I love you. Bye.”

 

He stared at the phone long enough to hear a dignified shout and a distinctive  _ whap  _ across the head.

 

“Ow! That’s not fair!”

 

So, they weren’t getting the submarine. Good to know.

  
  
  


~~~

  
  
  


“Clark.”

 

He really hoped Diana was still somewhere around, because he was sure he was about to get a royal ass whooping, courtesy of Bruce himself. He quickly listened around him.

 

Nope, gone. Just Barry and Hal.. what the fuck?

 

Oh, gross.

 

Clark turned to find Bruce in the doorway of the meeting room, hip propped up against the frame and his arms crossed in a way that Clark had seen far too many times before.

 

“What did I do?”

 

Bruce chuckled at the floor. “Nothing, just make sure to take your phone calls after League business.”

 

“Okay, sorry. My bad.”

 

Bruce stiffened a fraction. “I’m just telling you. You don’t have to apologize.”

 

“Well, not just for that,” Clark said meekly.

 

Bruce just scoffed.

 

“Have a nice dinner Clark.”

 

Clark smiled. “Thanks.”

 

And then Bruce left.

  
  
  


Wait.

  
  


~~~~~~~

 

Clark had never been more bored.

 

He got home around 7:30, exhausted, and Lois had insisted that they still go to dinner, despite his multiple protests. She had gone all out, a velvet blue dress that he was sure she was burning alive in, but he only summoned enough strength to throw on some slacks along with the shirt he had on all day. And then she dragged him to the restaurant down the street, which was so informal that the employees looked at Lois and her choice of attire strange.

 

Lois had ordered lemonade, and Clark had taken to mindlessly eating the free chips that the waiter kept (exasperatedly) replenishing.

 

A familiar heartbeat.

 

Lois was sifting through her appetizer salad, hand holding her head up and rambling on about something or other that Perry had said when he walked in.

 

_ Not he. They. _

 

Bruce, of course looked all the picture of an entitled playboy, hair slicked back and sticking out in tufts at the same time and his clothes pristine and undisturbed, except for wrinkles in a few  _ suggestive  _ places. 

 

There was a woman,  _ probably a prostitute,  _ Clark’s mind supplied helpfully, clinging to his arm, her fingers pursued around him as securely as if it were her damn  _ lifeline. _

 

And why would he be surprised that Bruce had picked up someone off of a street corner? She wasn't the worst looking; long, black hair that curled around her shoulders, piercing blue eyes, and though a bit too much makeup than what had to be socially acceptable, a nice enough bone structure. And if there’s anything that’s old news, it’s Bruce Wayne going to dinner with yet another girl.

 

But Clark hadn’t even started eating and his stomach was already churning.

 

Why would Bruce Wayne be at some hole in the wall restaurant?

 

He walked right past the greeter and to the bar, the staff tripping after him, and he whisked her away to a corner of the bar where they could, Clark had heard Bruce whisper in her ear, “be undisturbed.”

 

Clark’s face reddened.

 

“Here you are,” the waiter said, Clark startling when a plate clattered on the table in front of him. The waiter was smiling down at both of them and poured more water into Clark’s glass while Lois looked on skeptically.

 

When had he drank all of his water?

 

“Enjoy.”

 

“Clark,” Lois said, interlocking her hands to rest her head on when the waiter had scampered off to join the others swarming around the bar corner, “are you okay? You basically just chugged your whole glass.”

 

“Yeah- yeah, I’m fine, I’m just thirsty. You should know,” Clark said jokingly, and Lois just slapped his wrist from across the table and scoffed.

 

“Okay, okay, she made an honest mistake,” Lois said, and Clark’s cheeks pinked when she rubbed her thumb against his own. 

 

“So, you told me Perry said something about a promotion?”

 

“Yeah,” Lois beamed, and took out her phone from her pocket and started scrolling through it. “I’m hoping with the extra income we could move into a house of our own. I’ve already been looking at a few-” 

 

“A house Lo?” Clark asked, and she looked up at him with that little pouty face that he could somehow never say no to, “that seems a little sudden.”

 

Eyes on him. 

 

“Besides, I wouldn’t be able to contribute to paying for it and I’d feel guilty-” 

 

“I’ve got it covered Clark, it’s fine. Wouldn’t it be exciting?”

 

“It would, Lo, it’s just- nevermind. It sounds like a great idea.”

 

Lois’ smile was enough. 

 

Not enough.

  
  
  


~~~

 

 

“Chocolate mousse, really?”

 

“Yeah, I figured it’s a special night, you know. The promotion and all,” she said, spooning a piece that was dangerously close to falling off the spoon and thrusting it towards him. “Try it.”

 

“I-I’m good, really. Chocolate isn’t really my favorite,” Clark said, holding his hands up defensively and flashing a half hearted sheepish smile.

 

“Really? You never told me that,” Lois frowned.

 

“Well, you never asked,” Clark joked, poking his spoon at the mousse and nearly missing Lois’ crestfallen look.

 

“Hey, hey,” Clark said. “It’s okay. A lot of people don’t know that about me. But, you do now.”

 

Lois smiled. “Okay, okay.”

 

“I’m gonna go to the bathroom. I’ll be right back.”

 

“Okay, honey.”

  
  


And when he got back from the bathroom, he couldn’t help but glance at Bruce as he walked past. He didn’t look like he was having any fun- every time the girl would slip her fingers under his coat, he’d take an even bigger swig of his drink. If he wasn’t drunk before, he definitely was now. 

 

Was Bruce looking at him?

 

“Sir- excuse me-” he heard a waiter utter, and Clark tried to maneuver around him voicing a modest apology, before his foot caught on a barstool and he was tumbling to the ground.

 

“Oh, sorry-”

 

The tray was knocked out of the server’s hand, and in Clark’s wholehearted attempt to catch it, he blindly reached out and found a piece of fabric that he was sure was the server’s.

 

“My dress!”

 

Thankfully, he didn’t go flying across the room. 

 

Instead, the food did.

 

God damn it.

 

The woman let out an ear splitting scream and ran out of the bar, corn kernels left behind her retreating figure like a trail of breadcrumbs, and Clark, as if in slow motion, finally fell to the ground.

 

Well, not to the ground.

 

_ On top of Bruce. _

 

His glasses clattered to the floor and Clark put his arms out with some vague intention to break his fall and instead found them boxing Bruce’s head in.

 

The staff came rushing over and before they had the chance to pull Clark up, Bruce slipped his glasses on, unintentionally brushing his cheek with his fingertips.

 

And then Lois rushed over, and Bruce’s shoulders stiffened and he tried to maneuver out from under Clark even though he knew it was practically useless.

 

“It’s Stella- I have to go- I’m so sorry Clark, she’s in a really bad place right now- I swear I’ll be back in the morning.” She looked like she was about to try to kiss him goodbye, but decided better of it and just turned around and rushed out.

 

And then she left.

 

Fan-fucking-tastic.

 

Clark was helped to his feet by numerous pairs of hands, and then a waiter brushed his shirt off and meekly said, “I’m going to have to ask you to leave sir.”

 

Bruce was already on his feet and storming out by the time Clark had even regained his balance, shouting out the door, “Charlotte! Wait, come on baby!”

 

“Yeah, okay,” Clark muttered, picking a green bean off of his shirt while he was led (pushed) outside.

 

The door slammed shut behind him.

 

Bruce was waiting, leaning up against the brick wall of the restaurant, arms crossed and eyes overcast when Clark stepped outside.

 

“Way to go champ. You almost blew your cover.”

 

“I didn’t almost blow my cover,” Clark said defensively, stomping across the street with Bruce following stubbornly behind, “no one noticed, no one saw. And where’s your girl? Charlotte, was it?”

 

“You had to cause a scene, didn’t you?”

 

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

 

“I mean,” Bruce growled, spinning Clark around and shoving him against the nearest wall, which just so happened to be the grimy, sticky one of an alleyway, “you need to get over it. I know what you’re thinking, and it happened once. It’s never gonna happen again, so you need to stop being an asshole about it and let it go.”

 

“What if I don’t want to?” Clark murmured, and Bruce froze and stumbled back with a breath that was more shaky then he’d like to admit.

 

“Come on, Clark, don’t- just don’t. We can’t be seen together in public more frequently than necessary, or people are going to start getting suspicious of the relationship between us-”

 

“And what is the relationship between us?” Clark asked faintly, stepping towards him and Bruce stepped back again and braced himself against the trash can beside him as if he was going to attack him.

 

One step forward.

One step back.

One step forward.

One step back.

 

It seemed to be the only thing they were doing these days.

 

“Clark,” Bruce growled, or at least Clark thought so, because by now he sounded more like Batman and it turned him on more than it should have, which should have been not at all.

 

“Why’d you have to pick up some girl off the street?”

 

“I don’t have to explain myself to you,” Bruce spat, and then he was turning on his heel, trudging through the rapidly forming puddles.

 

“Bruce, wait-”

 

He wrapped his hand around Bruce’s wrist, tugging him back, and Bruce managed a “Get the fuck off of me” before Clark had hauled him in.

 

Bruce went rigid, momentarily contending to break his hold before he went limp and clutched his forearm, pressing against him.

 

He was so fucked.

 

This wasn’t new; Clark could do this much without breaking down- but the knee Bruce angled between his legs-  _ that  _ was new. 

 

Bruce wanted this.

 

Clark’s fingertips pressed into his hips, directly in his previous indentations, Bruce thought dimly, and Bruce carded a hand through his hair, relishing the slow burn of Clark’s teeth trailing along his lower lip. 

 

And Clark was drunk on him; the intoxicating, overwhelming taste of whiskey, the faint scent of motor oil under the overbearing Armani Cologne, the-

 

“Clark, wait, wait-“

 

Bruce was shoving his hand away from the zipper of his slacks. 

 

“What is this?” Bruce asked, looking up at him through thick eyelashes, and Clark could’ve sworn he left behind a piece of his heart in that alleyway. 

 

“Whatever you want it to be.”

  
  
  


There was a beat of weighted silence before Bruce hauled him in again. 

 

Clark’s lips were dipped in honey, and they tasted like strawberries and caramel and the raspberry pie his mother used to make. She would be so disappointed in him. 

 

Now Bruce knew why he didn’t stand a chance. 

 

Clark (pulled) the collar of his leather jacket like it had personally done him wrong and ran his hand through Bruce’s hair with the other, snapping it backwards so his neck was exposed and vulnerable. 

 

When had Clark become so aggressive?

 

“I’m gonna fuck you- rough you up,” Clark snarled and dragged his jeans against Bruce’s and the zipper caught and-  _ just like that. _

 

Clark’s mouth was on him- his neck, his lips, his earlobe, right  _ there- _

 

Clark hummed appreciatively, and  _ Jesus,  _ Bruce wasn’t doing shit- Clark was just rocking against his hip and if he could move a  _ little  _ to the left-

 

_ There.  _

 

“Nngh-“

 

_ Lois. _

 

Clark bit at his neck, honest to God  _ bit  _ him, and it shouldn’t have turned him on that those teeth could rip apart flesh, but it did. It absolutely did. 

 

_ South Sudan.  _

 

“Clark, wait, please.”

 

Clark stopped, which surprised him more than it should have; he  _ should  _ expect for Clark to stop, to be the gentleman he is and back off, but he quickly realized that he didn't. 

 

That was a harrowing realization in of itself.

 

“I’m sorry,” Clark said, resting his forehead against Bruce’s shoulder, hot breath fanning against his neck, “you’re amazing.”

 

“...You should go find Lois.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Clark hauled him in once more, letting his tongue flick out to push against Bruce’s lips, and Bruce smiled against him, pulled against his collar, and opened his mouth to allow Clark easy entry.

 

If this is the only way Bruce could have him, so be it.

 

So when Clark gradually nudged Bruce backward against the wall instead, he went with him easily.

 

“Bye Bruce,” Clark said, and he pushed Bruce’s hair back and gave him one last lingering kiss before he turned around and left.

 

Bruce smiled down at the pavement, the frigid air tinting his cheeks pink. He turned on his heels, took one last look back at the retreating figure, and returned home.

  
  


They both missed the flash.


	4. Photogenic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The vendor grinned, all raised eyebrows and cracked yellow teeth. “Ah. So your Wayne’s boy."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for sticking with me when it comes to this story. I appreciate it more than you could possibly know.
> 
> My goal was to get this out by New Year's, so here it is. Here's to me getting out more than four chapters this year.
> 
> Merry Early Christmas, and to all a good night.
> 
> All of my love,
> 
> -Lex

The first thing he noticed were the lights- they were blinding. Flashing multiple colors, never one for more than a half a second. It smelled like cheap alcohol and the wood of the bar was slowly but surely rotting away. The dancefloor didn’t look comfortable either; it looked more as if people were participating in a mosh pit rather than dancing. He shouldered past them.

The beat was slow, sluggish, lagging as if the stereo blasting it was on it’s last leg. The only thing more irritating than it was the women tugging him back and forth as if he were nothing more a bouquet at a wedding. 

He had narrowly made it to the back VIP room, an inconspicuous room with a worn black velvet curtain as the door, without getting his clothes shredded apart, and he could only pray that no one had pickpocketed him his net worth.

“Bruce.”

Diana was there already, lounging in the red leather booth with the posture of someone akin to a queen, (he supposed she was, he mused) and she was wearing the same blue dress that she had once told him she wore when she was with the most brilliant person she had ever met.

Blue.

Of course she looked lovely. But he had something else on his mind that particular night.

“Diana,” Bruce greeted, shaking her hand (her grip was firmer than his, he realized) and sitting across from her in the solitary booth. 

“Sorry I’m late. I have a new chauffeur and Alfred was preoccupied tonight-”

“Nonsense. It is perfectly fine. It was not much of a   
wait, anyhow. Would you like a drink?”

“Of course.”

“You said something was troubling you,” Diana said, drink up to her lips as if she was sipping on it, but the corner of her mouth upturned. “Care to talk about it?”

“Oh, no, I just- wanted some company is all.”

“You are lying,” Diana said matter of factly. “I am here to listen, Bruce. What one does with the truth is more difficult than you think.”

“Sometimes the truth isn’t good enough. Sometimes people deserve more.”

Diana went silent for a moment, tugging at a strand of her hair that had fallen astray. She leaned forward across the table and placed her hand on top of Bruce’s where it was resting by his glass. He startled and looked up to find Diana staring intently at him. 

“Do not think that you do not deserve love Bruce,” she said. “You deserve that and so much more.”

Bruce scoffed and pulled his hand out from under Diana’s in order to wrap it around his glass. “Who says I speak of love?”

Diana just smiled. “I see it in your eyes Mr. Wayne.” She looked down at the ground, a breathy puff of air escaping her mouth as if she was laughing. “I had that look in my eyes, once. I know, Bruce. So are you going to dodge me all night or are you going to tell me what is troubling you?”

Bruce sucked in a breath, opened his mouth and closed it again, and then reached for his drink and swirled it around in his glass. 

Diana was his friend (he didn’t have a lot of those these days), she was largely unbiased, and she had lost someone before, from what she had told him. And he was running out of criminals to take his anger out on. Maybe he had to just stop being so damn good at what he did.

Bruce laughed down at his feet. “Will you tell me about you first? Your… look? In your eyes?”

Diana smiled. She really was stunning. “Of course. And then you?”

Bruce drew in a breath and put his drink down in front of him, the violent clanking alerting nearby servers. He rubbed his upper thighs nervously. 

“Okay.”

 

~~~

 

Bruce’s gonna be honest; he wasn’t exactly expecting Clark to crash land through his window and tear up the rug, probably almost wrenching the whole second floor of the manor off it’s foundation.

But he also wasn’t complaining when Clark finally emerged from under the sheets that had somehow flown off the bed (and the bed itself hadn’t flown across the room, sending himself through the wall?) eyes shining and cheeks rosy and flushed. 

Was this what Diana was talking about?

And now Clark was sprawled on the couch while Bruce absentmindedly pet his hair, simultaneously sipping on whiskey in order to keep his remaining shreds of self control in check.

“Are- are you drunk?” Bruce asked, sniffing the air, and he sucked in air through his teeth when the smell of Jack Daniel’s assaulted him. Even he didn’t drink that much.

Okay, that was a lie.

“May- perhaps a bittle lit- I missed you.”

Bruce didn’t even know why he asked. The sitting room reeked of alcohol and Clark was just intoxicated enough that his words and sentences came out broken, but not unintelligible or slurred.

Which was- impressive, considering Clark didn’t drink all that much. That he knew of.

“Me? It’s been two days.”

Since their kiss went unspoken.

“Yeah, but I always feel better around you. My symptoms are always better.” He paused and smiled inanely up at Bruce. “You always make me feel amazing,” he murmured.

“Symptoms?” Bruce forced down the lump in his throat by sheer force of will. “What kind of symptoms?”

“I’m just- tired... and- sometimes I feel as though I can’t move any bone in my body, but sometimes… sometimes I’ll get this surge of power that makes me feel super strong, like you.”

Bruce huffed out a laugh. If only he knew. “What else?”

“I think more clearly, and, I actually understand the things around me- did you get a haircut?”

“Uh- yeah.” Bruce said, and Clark swayed vaguely upwards to touch it out of awe but Bruce just pushed him back onto the couch and shoved a pillow underneath his neck.

Was Clark high? Sure as fuck seemed like it.

“Can you tell me any more of your symptoms?” Bruce asked, and then returned to petting his hair when Clark pushed his head against his thigh.

“Mmmm. Why do you want to know?”

Bruce sipped on his whiskey. “To help you, of course.”

“That’s my Bruce, always looking out for me.”

“So?”

“So what?” Clark sounded confused.

“Can you tell me any more of your symptoms?”

“I- I don’t- I get the occasional headache, and stomach ache sometimes, but that’s about it…” Clark said, eyebrows furrowed and frowning as if he was upset that he couldn’t give Bruce more information.

“Okay, Clark. Why don’t you get some rest? Tomorrow is another day, and-”

“And sometimes,” Clark breathed, continuing, “when I get that little surge of power, I feel like I can take over the world.. Just me, and the sky... and the horizon, and you,” Clark said a bit possessively, raising his hand to gesture at the ceiling and instead decided to cup Bruce’s face. 

“Me?” Bruce smirked and raised an eyebrow and his heart was practically screaming at him by now, demanding to be calmed, to back off, to be ran faster, like an overheated machine on its last leg.

“You.” Clark said, softly and simply and he leaned forward, their noses bumping together and Clark’s lips awkwardly pushing against his upper lip. Bruce’s breath caught as Clark pulled back again, mumbled something that sounded vaguely like “Sorry-” and connected their mouths again, his hands sliding up Bruce’s arms to rest on his shoulders.

Bruce’s heart burst.

He didn’t have a contingency plan for this.

They moved together so easily that it was strange, alien, that two people so disparate could come together so simply like this. At least for Bruce, it felt like the most natural thing in the world. 

Clark inched forward, almost undetectable if Clark’s fingers didn’t shift from where they were locked with Bruce’s-

They were holding hands.

Clark lead him upwards and Bruce had no choice but to follow, into his arms, across the room, into the bedroom, to the ends of the earth if he had to-

He landed on his back on the bed.

“Clark-”

Clark stared at him like that for a few seconds- not with lust, or hunger, or even anger- he looked at him as if he were in pain. He looked as if he wanted to say something, so Bruce opened his mouth to- say something, he supposed. Anything.

But Clark simply flopped down next to him and wrapped his arms around Bruce’s waist, pulling him closer. “I just wanna cuddle you…” he mumbled, and Bruce chuckled, a sound like he was dying (he was), and pet his hair. Clark stayed like that for awhile, nose nuzzling against his neck but hands never straying from the small of his back.

And after a while, wetness splattered on his neck.

Bruce startled, eyes flying open from where they had drifted comfortably closed, only to realize that Clark was quivering and sobbing so violently Bruce thought he was dying.

“Clark. Clark? Are you okay?” Bruce held back the impulse to poke him.

“I don’t know how much more I can take Bruce,” Clark whimpered, and Bruce stared up at the ceiling for a second to wonder if he was dreaming. Superman, crying? It was more alien than Superman himself.

“Much more of what, Clark?”

“I love you,” Clark sobbed, fists clenched in his shirt and his body fitted against his, “I love you so much it hurts. You’re killing me Bruce. Why are you hurting me? Why do I love you so much?”

Bruce didn’t have an answer for Clark or himself. But if he knew one thing, it was that he hated seeing Clark upset with a passion. He guessed he really didn’t ever think about whether or not Superman did have to cry or not.

“Clark.”

Clark looked up at him, cerulean eyes drowning in their own ocean, and Bruce leaned in and kissed his tears away. Clark drew in a shaky breath, eyes averted, and Bruce tipped his chin up.

“I will do everything in my power to assure that you’re never hurt again, Clark.”

Clark smiled. Everything was still hazy from the whiskey, but he decided that he had never been more happy in his life than this moment.

Bruce smiled and laid Clark’s head back on the pillow.

“Sleep, Clark.”

He slept.

 

~~~~~

 

Clark was awoken the next morning by the silver, slanted sunlight that made it past the blackout curtains.

He rubbed at his eyes, gunk clouding his vision, and reluctantly got out of bed, head still pounding.

At least he had a good night’s sleep. His bed had felt more comfortable than usual last night. Still, he was far too tired to want to even want to think about opening his eyes.

Slowly, he became aware of the shower running and smiled to himself. Lois was showering later than usual; she probably slept in with him. He peeled off his alcohol stained T-shirt and made quick work of the rest of his clothes as he made his way to the door.

The door seemed farther away than usual. It was probably the Jack Daniel’s.

Clark swung open the shower door and stepped under the spray.

“Hey baby. You’re up late.”

“Not particularly. I wake up at the same time every day, Clark,” sounded a gruff voice.

Clark froze and pushed his drenched, flattened, hair out of his face.

It was Bruce.

It. Was. Bruce.

“Oh- my God. I-I am,” Clark stumbled towards the door, running slightly into it before he swung it open and about tripped over his own feet. “So- so- sorry, oh my God.” Clark tugged his boxers on, nearly falling over in the process, fabric clinging to his dampened skin. “Why are you in my house?!”

Bruce stepped out of the shower to grab a towel off the wall and Clark just huffed out a breath and turned to hide his reddening cheeks.

“Actually, Clark, this is my house.” Bruce sniffed indignantly. “I hope so, at least.”

“What happened last night?” Clark groused, quickly retreating into the bedroom. He sat on the bed, gingerly placing the back of his hand against his forehead and then yanking it back as if it was blistering.

He was practically burning up.

“I found you passed out at a bar,” Bruce said from the bathroom, and he leaned out of the door so he was facing Clark with an inconspicuous eyebrow raised, “Not even remotely subtle; you had drunk enough liquor to kill a man.”

“Sure feels like it,” Clark sniffed indignantly, finally taking in his surroundings. “Thanks for taking me- home.”

“Fine.”

Bruce’s head disappeared for a split second, and then a shirt was thrown in Clark’s general direction along with a belt and some slacks, all narrowly avoiding knocking him in the head.

“Get in the car. You’re late.”

“Late? For what?” Clark asked as Bruce waltzed out of the bathroom, tightening his tie snug against his gray collared shirt and jangling the keys in front of him.

“Work.”

“Work?” Clark glanced at the grandfather clock on the far side of the room, his face dropping.   
“Shit.”

 

~~~~~

 

When Clark got to work that day, he received a frigid slap to the back of the head from Perry as he slunk in the door and a withering stare from Kat from over the rim of her coffee cup.

Supposed it could have been worse. He hadn’t been late in over 2 years, after all.

Lois didn’t say anything when he came in, just ignoring his bashful wave as she brushed past him.

Strange.

 

~~~~~

 

“Hey, baby, wait up!”

Lois turned around momentarily, and when she caught sight of Clark she drew in a quick breath, tugged her jacket collar tighter around her, and started walking faster.

Clark faltered for a second. Had he heard her? “Lois?”

The silence between steps became almost nonexistent, and Clark stopped completely before breaking practically into full sprint.

“Lois, seriously, wait up!”

Before Clark even had the chance to stop completely, she had whirled around and near smothered him to death when her auburn hair whapped him in the face.

“What the hell, Lois?”

“No, you what the hell! I’ve been confined to my desk, humiliated, and you try to act like everything's alright? Because it’s not! It’s not Clark!” She paused for a moment and looked him up and down with confusion mixed with something like disgust. “Who’s shirt is that?”

“It’s not important- Lois, what are you talking about?”

She paused, narrowing her eyes at him as if she was contemplating whether to slap him in the face or burst into tears. 

“You know, Clark,” she said finally, wiping at her face almost violently so the corners of her eyes were left tinted red, “for a reporter, you sure don’t keep up with the news.”

And then she turned and left, stalking away with her hands shoved in her pockets. 

The news?

He started walking towards the nearest newsstand, hands in his pockets and head hung low, looking down at his feet stepping rhythmically one in front of the other. Not a single misstep. 

What had he done? Was it about the League meeting the other day? Maybe he had been a little distant, but nothing newsworthy.

Clark paused. Was it Superman?

“Hey,” a voice said, and he glanced sideways to see Bruce fall into step with him, tripping up a little when CLark had paused, holding two coffees with Clark scribbled on the side of one.

“That for me? Clark asked, the corner of his mouth quirked up, and Bruce just scoffed and held it vaguely in his direction, teasing, Who would’ve guessed?”

“What are you doing in Metropolis?”

“I can’t visit my favorite reporter?” Bruce asked innocently, and when Clark side eyed him he laughed and replied, “I won’t be for long. I have a board meeting.”

“Well, that’s too bad.”

They walked in silence after that, Clark only speaking when he got to the newsstand.

“Do you mind waiting here a sec?”

Bruce shook his head as he went to sip his coffee, and his phone rang as if on cue.

“You go ahead.”

“Hi, uh,” Clark said, approaching the stand awkwardly and holding out a quarter, “Daily Planet? Or whatever Magazine is your trashiest I suppose,” Clark huffed, laughing.

The vendor grinned, all raised eyebrows and cracked yellow teeth. “Ah. So your Wayne’s boy, he said matter of factly, and Clark stepped back when he threw a rolled up paper on the linoleum counter between them.”Sure hope another one comes out soon. I’m dying to know the details.

Clark just looked down. 

WEDDING BELLS OR FAREWELLS? BRUCE WAYNE’S NEW ARM CANDY IS A SNATCH!

Clark was far too shocked to consider sending the vendor halfway across the globe. He just turned on his heel so fast he almost sent all the newspapers behind him reeling.

“Got what you need?” Bruce asked, looking up from his phone where he had moved from the call to typing a strong worded email. 

Clark grabbed Bruce’s forearm so abruptly he almost pulled it right out of its socket. 

He could, Bruce thought dimly.

“Hey. Where are we going?”

No answer.

“Clark. Where are we going?”

“Just come with me.”

“No,” Bruce said, unyielding and firm, and Clark just sighed and turned around with his eyes downcast, deep lines creasing his forehead and an unsightly frown dawning his shadowed face. 

“Just come with me? Please?”

Bruce stared at him for only a second more before, quietly,

“Okay.”

So Bruce didn’t question it when Clark tugged him into a homely four star hotel, silently put a fifty down on the counter, and quickly opened the door with the keycard the woman had exasperatedly given him. 

“What- does this have something to do with last night? Listen, I just found you- and- I didn’t really know what to do with you-”

“We’re in the paper,” Clark groaned, scrubbing tiredly at his face.

“What?” Bruce asked, snatching the paper from his hands, eyes darting to the now wrinkled headline. “Oh. We- we can do damage control. I’ll handle this.”

Clark flopped face down on the bed next to him and let out a deep breath that brought the room’s temperature down by at least ten degrees. 

There was silence, and then Clark startled when the plush but rickety mattress started shaking and Bruce started snickering.

Clark pushed himself up onto his elbows.”What?”

“Huh? Oh, nothing,” he tittered, handing him the newspaper and pointing at a passage within the words Clark hadn’t even bothered to read, “it’s just- they call you a smoking mountain of man meat and muscles.”

Clark said nothing.

Bruce smiled at him and pointed again, more insistently this time, but quickly pulled away when Clark simply stared blankly at him.

“Sorry. I know- sorry.”

It was silent and then Clark burst out laughing. Rolled over and pinned Bruce to the bed, leaving the magazine abandoned next to Bruce’s head.

“I’m smoking? Vogue called me smoki- wow. Scratch that off the bucket list. “He looked up, feigning contemplation. “Maybe I could work the Victoria’s Secret Runway next year.”

Bruce just smiled up at him, wicked, and kicked his knee out from under him. Playful, innocent.

Clark collapsed in pain next to him.

“Oh my god. Are you- are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine.”

“That- shouldn’t have hurt,” Bruce said, a little concerned now, and Clark just clasped his shoulder and did what he did best.

Lied through his teeth.

“I’m fine, really.”

Bruce let out a breath he wasn’t aware he had been holding. “Good. Uh, I still have that- meeting to get to. I’m sorry to cut this short.”

What were they cutting short, exactly?

“Of course. I’m sorry to just- drag you here.”

“It’s okay. I’ll find my way back. I’ll talk to the editor of Vogue. She’s a good friend of mine.” And with that, Bruce got up, pulled his coat tighter around him and fidgeted his hair back to its original state.

“Hopefully I’ll see you later. Don’t get hurt anymore, okay?” Bruce joked, but he sounded more genuinely concerned than playful.

“Yeah. Hey, uh- how good of a friend is she?”

Bruce just winked at him as he walked out the door. “Not as good as you,” he threw out behind him.

Clark just smiled down at the floor.

 

~~~

 

When Clark opened the door to the apartment, Lois looked up from the box she was packing, wiped at her face, and stood up straight with her arms crossed over her chest.

Defensive.

Where did all these boxes come from?

“What are you doing here?” Lois asked, picking a vase up from the side table and inspecting it seemingly nonchalantly before setting it in the box.

“Am I not allowed here anymore?”

Lois casted her eyes downward and motioned to the boxes around her. 

“I thought I was going to be gone by the time you got back,” she whispered.

“Why are you acting like this?”

“Me?” Lois asked quietly, wiping at her face so her lipstick tinted the corners of her mouth red, “Don’t say that to me. You don’t get to accuse me. I-”

“Lo-”

“Let me finish,” she said, calmly, like a warning, like she was waiting to push him out of the eye, “I thought I was god to you. I was good to you, and you only. And that’s- that’s more than you can ever say.”

Silence. 

When had it all gone wrong? It felt like only yesterday that the last of the boxes had been broken down, the appliances were hooked up, and the sheets were put on the bed.

Their bed. 

Now, he just felt dejected and dirty…

No, he didn’t feel dirty. He felt clean. Cleansed. Had everything really gone wrong? Or had it all gone right? He wasn’t upset over the fact that he broke Lois’ heart.

He was upset he got caught. 

“I’m sorry. You can have the apartment.”

Lois stared at him. Withering. “Get out.”

“I hope someday you’ll be able to forgive me.”

“Get out!”

He practically sprinted out the door.

 

~~~

 

are you busy?

I’m on patrol. 

can I come over?

Of course, but I won’t be there if you do.

that’s fine

 

Gotham seemed calmer at this time of night. The police sirens maybe didn’t provide the nicest background noise, and the pollution blocked out all the stars, but it was calm.

“Hands up.”

He was wrong.

Clark froze, ice running through his veins, and turned his head to look behind him. Could he really punch this guy so hard he’d forget who he was as Clark Kent?

“Don’t move man. This can be easy.”

The mugger was shaking. He was either on drugs or a first timer. 

Clark smiled wistfully down at the cracked, blackened pavement. 

He was so not in the mood.

Eh, he’d pull it.

Clark turned, arm shooting out and punched the guy square in the jaw from where he had taken a step back, his fist connecting with his face with a satisfying, sickening crunch.

Those weren’t the mugger’s bones. 

“Shit,” Clark cursed under his breath, cradling his injured hand, his fingers hanging limply from his pulsing knuckles. He heard a muffled “bastard” from above him and then an ear piercing sound that left his ears ringing. 

It shouldn’t have. 

There was silence. Feet stomping against wet pavement, and cloudy water splashed into his face. Wetness soaked Clark’s shirt and he looked down to see a crimson stain rapidly growing until his white T-shirt turned red. 

The last thought he had was that’s not water.

He passed out.

 

~~~


End file.
